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Sit in seemingly endless queues as I have done for the past few days and you will agree with equal vehemence: bureaucracy is demonic. Find the greatest morons on the planet, employ them as civil servants and you have created a more effective hell than anything Satan has prepared for the infidels. And the morons.

Yesterday I figured it was about time to make my claim on all the UIF I’ve had deducted off my salary for a hundred million years. After waiting forever, I eventually got to the information desk and received two additional forms to fill in. My bank had to fill in the one on my behalf so they don’t pay the wrong moron; the other was a ridiculous attempt on government’s part to find me a new job. That’s not going to happen if they take six weeks just to approve my claim.

By the time I’d filled in the forms and got back to Ground Zero, the UIF place looked like a UFO had just landed there and offloaded ten million dejected jobless people all wearing T-shirts with my face on it, the words ‘haha you moron get to the back of the queue’ boldly inked on my forehead.

So I went home. And then woke up very early this morning, only to find that at least eighty million people had woken up even earlier and were already waiting for the door to open. Fuck. It. Hours later I finally made it to the front. All the while contemplating how screwed up life is for many, many people in this country. Life is a perpetual struggle for the poor, long after the Struggle has ended, and will remain so for their kids long after Malema forgets the words to “Kill the boer”. I have far less to rant about. But rant I shall.

No sooner had I got home when I learned that Home Affairs was my next appointment. My daughter needs a passport as she is going abroad with her aunt’s family for a mid-year holiday.

Dear god, I thought the queues at the UIF place were out of this world. And the door. I had the good fortune of having this dude behind me the entire god-forsaken time who would not know a toothbrush from a Jedi light sabre. Seriously, each time he opened his mouth to talk or yawn or just breathe forcefully I thought Lucifer himself was taking a septic dump on my head. It was not his fault that his right eye had been pecked by ducks or nibbled by rats. I’ll give him that. Or that he was cursed with the same problem as me — fucking endless queues and bureaucratic ineptitude. But the breath from hell?! That was just not cool dude. Not cool.

Update on swearing in French: The dude who finally dealt with our passport needs was fascinated by my name. After learning of its French origin, he had to point out that French is a really kiff language. Why? Because you can swear at people and it’ll sound just lovely to their ignorant ears. You could literally call someone a fucking moron and unless they’re French-speaking, they’ll just think you’re saying they smell like daffodils. Or garlic. Either way, stealth offensiveness at its finest. This clever dude should not be helping irritated people with their passport applications. He should be the mayor of that city in Argentina — Morón.

The Moron

Follow my unholy joyride at your own peril. Be warned, careless insults and gratuitous profanity buzz around these pages like flies about a dead llama. But you will also read unbelievably profound wisdom that will completely blow your mind and make you come back for more. Or shoot yourself. Your choice.

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